Dinner: Impossible
by el spirito
Summary: De-aged Dean is bored while Sam is trying to cook Thanksgiving dinner...trouble ensues. Sort of sequel to Trick or Treat or Else, but you don't need to have read that one. Written for the Autumn/Halloween hoodie time h/c prompt at livejournal.


A/N: Another de-aged Dean prompt for the Halloween hoodie_time h/c community over at livejournal, Seriously, so addicting!

Prompt: A very de-aged Dean burns his finger 'helping' prepare Thanksgiving dinner at Bobby's house. Lots of cuddles ensue.

xxxx

Dean hates Thanksgiving. Well, Big Dean does. He always sees it as a bad excuse to avoid hunting, and neither of them cook much anyway, so normally it comes and goes without fanfare. This year, Sam's determined that it'll be different, and that Baby Dean might actually appreciate a big, home-cooked meal.

Assuming, that is, that Sam can accomplish that.

He buys the standard stuff, potatoes and turkey and cranberry sauce and green beans, stuffing mix and sparkling cider. He knows better than to try to bake rolls, though, and ends up buying the kind that come in a tube. He invites Bobby to come over, because Bobby's the only family they've got left, but also because he hopes the older man can help keep Dean occupied.

Currently, the little guy is coloring in his new coloring book, a Spiderman one that he picked out himself, and he's got a full box of sharp new crayons. He's lying on his stomach, legs kicking behind him as he colors, humming something that sounds a lot like Misty Mountain Hop. Sam has learned since this whole thing started, that Dean will probably get bored quickly, and then he's going to have to figure something else out.

Turning back to the kitchen, where he's laid out all of his ingredients and the many recipes he got online, Sam surveys his area. He's rented an apartment for the duration of the curse, because there's no way in hell he's dragging a four year old on hunts with him. Sam can't imagine subjecting someone so sweet and innocent to the shithole of a life they live, and this experience with Dean has managed to cast an even worse light on their father. Sam didn't even know that was possible.

Behind him, Dean stops humming, and Sam glances at his watch, swearing under his breath. He thought he would have a few more minutes before Dean got bored, but apparently not. He's about to go switch the TV on when Dean sneezes, twice in quick succession, then resumes humming. Sam lets out a sigh of relief and grins at how cute and- and un-Dean like the sneezes were, high-pitched and squeaky, and definitely full of saliva.

Dean stops humming again, and then he clears his throat. Sam turns to look at him. Dean is looking back expectantly, one hand poised mid-air over the coloring book, the black crayon floating over the Green Goblin's face.

"What's up, bud?" Sam asks. Dean huffs under his breath.

"Bless me," he demands. Sam's taken aback. Sure he hasn't stopped salting the doors and maybe chanting a few spells to ward off any bad vibes, but he's been careful about not doing it in front of Dean.

"Wh-What?" He stutters. Dean sighs and rolls his eyes before going back to his coloring book and sneezing very deliberately and loudly. Sam feels a rush of relief.

"Bless you, Dean," he says.

"Thanks!" Dean chirps, and continues humming.

Sam shakes his head and grins, and turns back to trying to figure out how the hell to baste a turkey.

Twenty minutes later, Dean is bored, bored, bored. He's played with his Legos, he's colored most of his coloring book, he's watched the first five minutes of Ice Age and half an episode of Arthur, and he's stretched out his Fruit by the Foot until it's almost as tall as he is. Now, he wants entertainment.

He wants Sam.

"Sammy," Dean says, padding into the kitchen. He's holding his stuffed dog, now dubbed Pal (after the Impala, _not _after Arthur's dog) by the ear, and it's dragging along the floor behind him.

"What, Dean?" Sam asks, turning from whatever it is he was doing. Dean doesn't know, but it's probably boring. Most of what Sammy does is boring.

"I'm bored," Dean whines. Sam smiles a little bit.

"Well, why don't you watch a movie?" He asks.

"I don't wanna," Dean replies.

"What about your Legos?"

"I already played with those."

Sam glances into the living room and winces, and Dean remembers that he didn't clean them up when he was done, and they're kind of all over the living room floor. Oh well.

"I don't know, Dean. Maybe it's nap time."

Dean takes a step backward and nearly trips over Pal, still on the floor behind him. Oh, the betrayal! How could Sam even suggest such a thing?"

"No!" Dean cries, leveling Sam his best glare. It's the one where he tips his chin down so he's staring at the floor, but then looks up at his brother from beneath his lowered eyebrows. It's a very frightening glare.

Sam doesn't seem to be suitably frightened.

"You're going to have to figure out something, Dean, because I'm kind of busy right now."

"What are you doing?" Dean asks. He doesn't care, not really, because it's bound to be boring. He just wants to give Sam a chance to talk. Sam likes talking.

"Why do you want to know?" Sam replies. He's smiling a little bit. Dean suspects that he might be teasing, but he's not sure.

"So you can talk. You like talking," he answers honestly. Sam turns around quickly, and his shoulders shake for a second. Dean thinks he might be crying and he's surprised. He didn't think Sam was _that_ much of a girl.

"Oh, Dean. I don't know what to do with you," Sammy says when he turns back around.

"Play with me!" Dean suggests helpfully. Sam sighs.

"Listen, I'm cooking dinner right now. Do you want to help?"

Dean eyes him carefully, trying to gauge how sincere Sam is in his offer. This could be something stupid, like the time Sam said that cleaning up his toys was actually a game.

"Will it be fun?" He asks.

Sam shrugs.

"Could be. Depends on you."

"How?" Dean asks. Something is fun, or it isn't.

"If you want it to be fun, it will be," Sam explains. Dean rolls his eyes. This is definitely like the clean-up game. Still, he has nothing better to do, and Sammy might be lonely in the kitchen all by himself, so Dean decides he can help. He starts to pull a chair into the kitchen from the table, but he can't do it with Pal in one hand, so he tucks the dog between his legs and tries to do it that way. Pal falls out after only a few steps. Frustrated, he plops Pal down on top of the chair and struggles again to pull the chair over. Pal stares blankly at him while he tugs, and Dean sticks his tongue out at him. Dumb dog should help him, not make things worse.

"Sammy!" He wails finally, feeling real tears come to his eyes. He blinks them away quickly. He's not a girl.

"What's up?" Sam asks, looking over his shoulder at Dean.

"I want to get the chair, but I can't with Pal so then I put Pal on top, but now it's too heavy and I can't do it!" Dean cries. He's not crying. Really, he isn't.

"Do you need help?" Sam says.

"Yes!" Dean wails. (But it's a big boy wail, so it's okay.)

"What do you say?"

Dean's too distraught to give Sam a glare. "Help! Please!"

"Okay, okay, here you go," Sam says, walking over to the chair. He picks it up, no trouble, Pal and all. Dean is once again reminded that his brother is a giant, and he can do _anything_.

"I'm going to put Pal over here so he doesn't get messy, okay?" Sam says, putting Pal on the other side of the kitchen. Dean watches apprehensively, lip tucked between his teeth. "As soon as we're done, we'll get him back."

Dean nods and watches as Sam demonstrates what he gets to do. It might not be so bad after all.

Sam grins. Dean's taken to smashing the potatoes with a vengeance Sam's rarely seen. Sam knows it's not very efficient, and he'll probably have to end up mashing them again anyway, but it's the perfect job for Dean, and the little boy's clearly having a ton of fun. He's also quite messy, bits of potato in his hair and all over his shirt, but Sam's sure it's completely worth it.

"How's it going, Dean?" Sam asks. Dean turns around, grinning widely.

"I'm smashing them, Sammy! Like you smashed that mean guy's face!"

Sam has the brace to blush. Sure the guy tried to abduct Dean, but he probably shouldn't have done that with the little guy right there…

"Yeah, but that was a mean guy. We don't smash nice people's faces, do we?"

"Nope," Dean says cheerfully, pounding at a potato. "Only mean ones."

"Good," Sam says, then glances at his watch. "Oh! Shi- snap!" Sam winces at the slip-up. He's trying really hard to censor himself, but Dean's sharp as a tack and Sam's worried he'll have picked up on it. But, he hasn't this time. He's much to focused on smashing the crap out of the potatoes.

"I need to check the turkey!"

Dean looks up, interested. "Turkey?" He says.

"It's in the oven, cooking," Sam explains, washing his hands as he talks. "I need to see if it's done."

"How do you know?"

"It'll be kind of golden-brown if it's done," Sam says. He reaches over to open the door when the phone rings. He mutters some almost-curse words under his breath and rushes out of the room before Dean gets a chance to. Dean answered the phone last time it rang. His side of the conversation had consisted of "Hello? Uh-huh. No. Sam doesn't want to talk to you," before hanging up.

It's Bobby. The man still hasn't figured out how to use a GPS and he lost the map he'd had for the area, so Sam starts giving him directions, waiting impatiently for Bobby to write them down as he says them.

"Look, Bobby, I've really got to-"

He's cut off by a piercing scream from the kitchen and drops the phone before hurrying into the other room.

"Dean? Dean, what's wrong?" He barks as he rushes in. Dean is sitting in a heap on the floor, holding his right hand in front of him. He's sobbing, his face red and tears streaming down his cheeks.

"What happened?" Sam asks, but it becomes clear as he scoops Dean up. The oven door is open, and Dean's little hand is steadily turning a bright red.

"I t-tried to ch-check the turkey," Dean wails. Sam cuddles him close and closes the oven with his foot.

"Can I look at it?"

Dean shakes his head. Poor little guy. Must be pretty painful.

"Come on Dean, let me see."

Dean finally unfurls his hand, and Sam sees that his whole palm and the underside of his fingers are burned. It looks like he just grabbed the pan.

"Oh, buddy, I'm sorry. Come on, we'll run some cold water on it, huh?"

Dean nods shakily, still hitching with sobs as Sam carries him to the sink and turns on the tap. He holds Dean's hand under the water, gently rubbing his shoulder with his other hand and kissing the top of Dean's head.

"Okay Dean, we're going to put some aloe gel on it, okay?"

"O-okay," Dean says, sniffling loudly and running his good hand under his nose.

Sam gets the aloe vera that he had on hand after he got badly sunburned last year in Arizona. Dean teased him about having it then. Sam can't wait to tell Big Dean that it works.

"Alright, hand out," Sam says. Dean complies, lower lip trembling and tears streaming down his face. He lets out a yelp when Sam first touches his hand and starts crying again as Sam applies the gel as gently as he can.

"It hurts, Sammy," Dean moans, leaning his head against Sam's shoulder.

"I know, kiddo, I know," Sam soothes, rubbing his hand on Dean's tense back. Sam pulls an ice pack from the freezer and wraps it in a paper towel before holding it on Dean's hand.

"How 'bout we go watch a movie, huh?" Sam says.

"What about c-cooking?" Dean asks. His breath still hitches with the occasional sob and his nose and eyes are red.

"You know what, just a second," Sam says, handing Pal to Dean. Dean clutches Pal to his chest with his good hand. Sam checks the turkey- slightly burned, but not too bad, and puts it on the stove. The rest can wait.

"All done," Sam announces. "Thanks to you helping me, of course." Dean puffs his chest up a little bit, wallowing in the praise.

"Okay. How 'bout How The Grinch Stole Christmas? Have you ever seen that one?"

Dean shakes his head. Sam's suspected for awhile that Dean's close to naptime, and all the drama seems to have drained him.

"Alright. It's great," Sam says, popping it in. Dean snuggles up to him, legs tucked up into Sam's lap. Sam's still holding the burned hand, the ice pack nestled on top of it, and Pal is hanging from Dean's other hand. It only takes a few minutes before Dean is completely out, mouth open and a spot of drool growing steadily larger on Sam's shirt.

He doesn't mind, though, and by the time Bobby gets there, Sam's fallen asleep too. Bobby grins and shakes his head and mutters something about 'damn idjits' before quietly finishing up the unfinished cooking. And if he notices bits of mashed potato everywhere, he doesn't say anything.


End file.
